


The Tango

by Moire (AlessNox)



Series: The Tangoverse [1]
Category: Sherlock - Fandom
Genre: Argentine Tango, Brothers, Dancing, Family, M/M, Tango, dance, or more
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-01
Updated: 2016-02-01
Packaged: 2018-05-17 13:01:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,873
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5870641
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlessNox/pseuds/Moire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Every one knows that Sherlock knows how to dance, but Mycroft is the one who taught him.</p><p>Inspired by this tango<br/>https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-6-6kN79oIA</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Tango

At the age of fifteen, Sherlock had started growing in earnest, so that by sixteen he was almost as tall as Mycroft. He celebrated his growth by hanging out with the wrong crowd, and pursuing vices much too serious for someone of his age. So when, upon coming home for a weekend visit, Mycroft got a text from Sherlock asking to meet in one of the seedier parts of town, he expected the worst.

Mycroft took off his suit, dressing in trainers and a green shirt, expecting to have to pull him out of another sordid drug den. Mother had assured Mycroft that Sherlock had changed. _'He's been_ _engrossed in artistic pursuits,'_ she said, _'Letting out some of that endless energy that courses through him like a fire.'_ A fire. What an apt description. One day, Mycroft feared, that fire might burn him to a crisp.

He entered the restaurant, glancing at the crowd hanging artfully around an empty dance floor. Sherlock sat at a table waiting for him. He was alone, thank God, in white jeans and a sleeveless vest of black that made him look like a wannabe gigolo. Mycroft walked straight to him, moving the glass of red wine out of his reach in one motion as he sat.

"Alright, I'm here. What's all this about?"

"I've grown." Sherlock replied.

The side of Mycroft's lip quirked up. "I've noticed."

"My dance partner hasn't."

"Regrettable. And why does this concern me?"

"It concerns me. The performance is tomorrow and I have no one to dance with."

"I suppose that is why you have come here. From the clothing and the shoes of the patrons, I would guess this is a place where people go to perform the tango. The Argentine Tango to be specific. So have you found anyone in this establishment willing to take you on?"

"Plenty," he said in a way that implied that dancing wasn't what was on most of their minds. "They were willing, but none of them were good enough."

"Then that seems to be that. Cancel the performance."

"I can't. You see there are people who will be there. People who have ...expressed doubt in my abilities. If I pull out now, it would be seen as proof that I wasn't telling the truth about my skills."

Mycroft sighed. "Sherlock, when will you cease to let others pull you into their games. If they want to hate you, they will hate you no matter what your talents. Stop caring about their good opinion. Caring, is NOT an advantage!"

"But I don't want to cancel. I'm too good for that."

"Then why am I here? Do you want me to find you a partner?"

"I've already found one."

"Who?"

"You!" Sherlock stared directly at Mycroft. He tilted his head forward and the curl that he had greased to sit in the center of his forehead slipped down to touch the top of his nose.

Mycroft stared back, and then he laughed a sharp bark. "No."

"But Mycroft, you are the only one who can do it."

"Tomorrow is hardly enough time to..."

"Please don't be modest. When has it ever taken you more than a few minutes to learn anything?"

"Don't be ridiculous, Sherlock. It has been ages since I have danced."

"But you've been keeping in shape. All those hours at the gym. Why else would you keep those clothes except to sweat in. You hate to sweat."

"Exactly, I hate to sweat, so why would I volunteer to get all sweaty dancing with you?"

"You loved to dance once. It was seeing you that made me want to learn, and you were not without talent."

"Not without talent?" Mycroft huffed. "I was a champion."

"It was a different era then," Sherlock chided.

"I said no!" Mycroft said rising to his feet.

"Please." Sherlock begged. "You told me once that you would always be there for me."

Mycroft stopped for a moment looking down into those pale eyes, and was almost sold, until he recognized the smirk at the corner of Sherlock's cheek. He rolled his eyes. "It's late, Sherlock. I don't have the time to play with you anymore."

Mycroft walked toward the door so he didn't see the way that Sherlock nodded to the man near the window who started the music. Sherlock caught Mycroft's arm just as he left the building. He turned, and Sherlock spun in his arms until they were pressed chest to chest.

"I don't even know the dance," Mycroft said looking down into his brother's determined face.

"You know me. And when have you ever needed more than the smallest signal to tell what am going to do? Dance!"

Mycroft paused for a moment, and then he pulled up his arms, forcing Sherlock into the proper position. Then he began to move him across the floor. Sherlock of course took the female role, backing across the pavement and letting Mycroft fling him so that his legs arched back into the air. His lithe, limber body seemed made for dancing as he let Mycroft spin him down into a deep lunge.

Mycroft grasped his hand. The minute pressure changes telling him which way he wanted him to go. Sherlock followed like a dream, wrapping his leg around Mycroft's knee and kicking around in a circle as they turned and strode in their dance in front of the restaurant.

People gathered around taking photographs, and Mycroft's love of drama made him strike a pose as he flourished Sherlock around him like a cape. Sherlock was only too happy to oblige, his tight black shoes flipping rapidly around Mycroft's body. His pointed toe tracing crazy figure eights through the air.

They circled around each other and Sherlock rode his foot gently up Mycroft's calf before stretching his long legs around his brother's back to the height of his head. Mycroft smiled. He had rarely had a partner as responsive as Sherlock. He placed a hand on his back signaling a lift, and Sherlock raised his left knee steadying himself as his brother thrust him up with one hand into the sky. He arched above him, head thrown back, arms wide till Mycroft lowered him, not enough to touch the floor. His legs cycled above the ground as Mycroft slid him forward, till his feet touched and they both lunged together in a move that made the audience gasp.

Mycroft pulled Sherlock to his chest and bent him back before striding forward. Sherlock's legs moving backwards in time with his own as they strode back and forth before the crowd. This is what he had always wished his relationship with his brother to be. One of subtle pressure and response. For Sherlock was right. He could always read Sherlock, but Sherlock read him too. He understood his need for control. He understood how much Mycroft loved having someone clever enough to follow where he lead.

They danced around each other not talking, only responding with eyes and touches, as Sherlock circled around him. He was good, impossibly good. Mycroft placed a hand gently on his abdomen and twisted him over his shoulder, and then Sherlock pulled out all the stops. Feet flying everywhere, lunges deep . His white sheathed legs whirling around in complex hieroglyphics as Mycroft twirled him around the floor. Mycroft whisked them into a spin, so that Sherlock's leg traced a circle across the ground as they turned and turned, then Mycroft grasped his hip pulling him over his his own. Their arms rose higher, and cameras flashed as they strode to one end of the pavement and paused. As they sauntered back Mycroft lifted him, whirling him around into a dip, as he lowered himself into a lunge.

He was beginning to get tired. His steps fumbled with lack of practice, but he couldn't stop. Sherlock was ablaze! Mycroft realized that Sherlock was better at this than he had ever been. His footwork was superb. His legs, nimble. He was gorgeous. Mycroft looked into his eyes, and realized that he could deny him nothing. His brother had always been a purer soul than he. His music was more expressive, his dancing more beautiful. Sherlock was unique and precious. He lifted his knee, and Mycroft pressed it high both of them leaning out as Sherlock's leg pointed straight at the sky.

They came back together, and his arm wrapped firmly against the young man's back as he turned him so that Sherlock's back was against his front. Then Sherlock lifted his legs from the floor, his knees grasping Mycroft's as he arched his back, the back of his head resting on his brother's shoulder. Mycroft spun and spun, and Sherlock never slipped never fell. There was a trust between them that he had never felt with another partner. He could take chances because his brother knew that he would never let him fall.

He lowered Sherlock and when they faced each other again Sherlock smiled. Mycroft redoubled his pace and they glided across the floor, Sherlock's legs never stopping their motion as they flourished on each glide and step. Sherlock wrapped his leg around Mycroft's hip and they twirled again. The joy and exhilaration leading him to spin faster, to pull Sherlock up so that his body whipped around them, showy and beautiful as he ever was.

They danced across the pavement twirling as his legs circled over their heads. In harmony, as they rarely were. United as he always wanted them to be. Mycroft lifted him into the sky rolling him across his shoulders and around his chest in a complex move that ended with even more complex footwork. Then the pitch of the music rose and he turned sharply lowering Sherlock into a split. Sherlock arched back his head dramatically and the crowd exploded in cheers as Mycroft knelt on one knee breathing heavily holding him there before pulling him up to his feet.

Sherlock turned toward him and smiled with tears in his eyes. He nodded, knowing that Mycroft would be there tomorrow. Knowing that he was already composing the order to his tailor for a fitted suit.. _'Perhaps a blue tie for Sherlock or plum?' Deep colors always suited Sherlock best.'_ His brother waved at the crowd telling them the location of their next performance before striding out into the darkened street as if there was no danger in the world.

Mycroft took a moment to catch his breath before following him. Surprised as the crowd clapped when he passed. He couldn't help but be proud. Sherlock wasn't back on the drugs. Sherlock was rising to meet his potential.

This was _his_ victory for not giving up on Sherlock when he was at his worst. From here, their rise would be meteoric. They would dance and the entire world would see how well the two of them worked together. And when he came of age, Sherlock would join him in Government service, and they would rise in power, trusting each other, acting as coordinated as they were on the floor. He caught up with his brother and took his hand, leading him toward his car. From now on, this is how they would always be, together.


End file.
